


Two Coins

by maryfic



Series: Adventures in Hell [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Going to Hell, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hell, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryfic/pseuds/maryfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Coins

The blond and the redhead slept, and as they slept, they traveled down the river of dreams, diverging and connecting in the oddest places.

The last weekend Willow had actually slept well was over a week away, now. Her talk with Giles about purgatory and different religions had been informative, to say the least, but even the Watcher’s Council had no idea whether vampires could end up there, even if they had a soul. The anomaly Angel had become had stymied their most stuffy minds. This was disappointing to Willow, because she’d begun to dream of Angel in a very strange place – it looked like a classroom, and he seemed to be studying the same lesson over and over again – which was nightmarish for her, because when Willow studied, it stuck, and then morphed into yet more knowledge. Every night, she strained to see what he was poring over, a messy pile of parchment and scrolls covering the desk, and boxes of printer paper spilling around his feet out of traditional cardboard boxes. He never looked up, but Willow knew the difference between the demon and the soul. This was the Angel she’d known before Buffy’d – before she and Angel had had sex.

It seemed wrong to call it anything else, though Buffy had always insisted they’d been in love. Maybe it had been one-sided? Her shoulders shrugged again. No one understood the curse the gypsies had placed on Angel in Romania, not even her, and she’d spent a great deal of time studying it, preparing to re-curse him.

Oh, and the re-cursing had actually worked. If her dreams were to be considered true, it also meant Buffy had lied. This made Willow’s stomach twist. All summer she’d been making excuses in her head for the Slayer’s absenteeism – no. She wasn’t a Slayer, she didn’t have prophetic dreams.  This was probably just wishful thinking on her part – desperate to retain some portion of the friendship she thought had been cultivating before, her mind had simply conjured up a pretty picture to make her feel better.

This logic worked. Most nights. Others nights, she pressed further into the dream and as fireworks burst outside her window, she fell into a deep sleep, and the familiar image spread before her. The classroom was typical with chairs, desks, and a chalkboard. This time, however, there were two people in the room. And one of them was in chains. Willow sat in the back of the room, which she would never have done in real life, and watched the scene play out the same way, again.

***

“Here endeth the lesson. Again!” Angelus crowed, half angry and half joyful, slapping the papers with a long wooden pointer. “Jesus, how did we live with you in charge?” He sat back down across from the soul, his soul, he supposed. If the gypsies and their shoddy craftsmanship ever did anything right. This could be the soul of some other layabout Irish lad named Angelus. But the soul looked exactly like him. And it was a big old pussy - which was NOTHING like him. “Come on, now. Tell me the lesson, Angel. Why, exactly, are we here? And chained,” he added, pulling on his. “But you’re not, are you?” His brogue was rough and there was an undertone of rage running just below the surface.

Angel looked up at him, his face a mirror image of the anger he saw in the demon’s face. It was odd. Angelus’ face was twisted with strong emotion, and Angel’s was like a placid lake that had a monster beneath the surface. Of course, Angelus was the monster. They weren’t separate. Purgatory had done that, reaching out to grab Angelus on the long slide to hell down Acathla’s throat. Angel had been riding on his back, shoved back into his body by something resembling an electrical charge, racing him along planes from wherever he’d been. The ether, he supposed. 

“We are here because you cannot control yourself. I had the situation well in hand.” And he had. A nice, quiet existence had been built – a girl for sex, fresh blood, and fighting. All of his various appetites satisfied in one small town. They’d never been happier. Even Angelus had been pleased when Spike had shown up again, albeit with a broken Drusilla. It was only mildly annoying to see her again. Especially when she started clinging to him, which had pissed off Spike – which resulted in more broken furniture that even his portfolio could replace in a month’s time. They’d enjoyed rekindling the past with Spike, and Angelus had visited his special brand of cruelty upon Drusilla’s pale form while Angel passed the time sleeping. But when he was finished, they moved together again.

Angelus slapped the pointer. “Yeah, it was good times. Focus on the here and now, soul! You want to get out of here? Me, too. Who would have thought?” The chains wouldn’t let him go far, so he amused himself by rattling them every now and then until his head lifted and met Angel’s eyes with a glint, whether from his eyes or those fangs, the soul couldn’t tell. “Distraction,” he said, sniffing. “You smell that?”

Exasperated, Angel stood. Pacing never helped, but it irritated Angelus, and that was always pleasing. “Smell what?”

***

Spike was on fire. Or the box he was in was on fire, which was better than his precious self being in flames. It also gave him a few extra seconds to shout, heedless of where he was or what was outside. When he smelled burning wood and it was getting hot under his boots, it was time to panic. His fists flew above him in a fast series of jabs, and after a few good lefts, he heard wood splinter and his fist shot out into…mist? He shifted his hands and began to push the wood around the broken place until he could see at least what was immediate above his face. It was dim, not dark, like it was lit by torches of some kind. That explained the fire and smoke from minutes ago, but not where he was and why it felt like London fog damp.  The chill was seeping into the coffin now, and he shivered. A long while later, too long for his taste, he had the top half of his crate removed and shoved down towards his feet and he pushed up to a sitting position. Then the blond gaped like a two-penny Whitechapel whore.

The scene that greeted his eyes was medieval or older. A tunnel, dimly lit, and extending into blackness as far as he could see in either direction, which wasn’t very far as the darkness swallowed his vision up to his immediate area. When he looked down to see he was in a river, and currently docked next to a skeleton man holding a long staff, he shrieked like a girl. If you saw the ferryman to the realm of the dead, and last you knew you were distinctly undead, you’d be a little uncomfortable too, Spike defended himself mentally. He could have sworn the skeleton laughed in his mind.

“You are causing trouble on my waters,” Charon said. His voice was dry, but solid. Not ghostly at all, which is what Spike had expected, or comparable to whispering leaves or some such poetic nonsense. He adjusted himself slightly to avoid the broken wood. “Sorry, mate. I don’t even know how I got here.” he added with an uneasy grin. He knew all the old myths about what happened when Charon didn’t like you – or you didn’t pay the toll. He hoped the ferryman took credit.

A long suffering sigh erupted from the empty ribcage. The guardian to the lands of the dead held out his palm. “Pay the toll, Spike. I am tired of vampires and you have very little time to appease me.” Of course, Charon was immortal, so this could mean anything, but Spike slid hands into his pockets, hoping against for a little coin. He came up empty save for his lighter, smokes, and – ha! A bottle of fire-engine red nail polish. He dropped it into the offered claw without touching the bone. “Try that on for size mate, give you some color.”

A long, tense inspection, then a chuckle.

“Synthetic blood. Humans amuse me when they chase death.” He closed his hand, and the bottle disappeared. “Very well. I accept.” Two coins appeared and he pushed Spike flat again, laying the cool metal of the dânake’s over his eyes, Gorgon face upright, staring, frozen, right back at him. “I do miss her.” he muttered, then he slapped the side of Spike’s box and it shifted beneath the vampire. “None may come save through this entrance, and having paid the proper toll, I grant thee entrance to the lands of the dead,” he intoned, then, in his usual voice, “Information is on the left, past the pretzel kiosk.” There was a loud rushing sound, and the ground fell out from beneath Spike’s boat, sending down the ultimate flume ride. He tried not to scream, but if he did, the wandering souls of the river gave no indication he was heard. 


End file.
